


Impressions (First and Otherwise)

by lucycourageous



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Growth, Character Study, First Meetings, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Whizzer Brown/Marvin, to begin with at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycourageous/pseuds/lucycourageous
Summary: Whizzer’s seen a lot of handsome but obviously closeted men in his time. What really catches his eye about this one though is the unmistakable look of a man who is spoiling for a fight, a coiled spring, ready to fly apart at the slightest provocation.Provocative could be Whizzer Brown’s middle name.
Relationships: Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Impressions (First and Otherwise)

Marvin has always been a man riddled with tension. 

His jaw is almost perpetually clenched. When he gets angry or stressed, he grinds his teeth and veins throb in the side of his neck. Whizzer swears the only way the muscles in his arms could have gotten so big is from how tightly he folds them across his chest, because he’s sure as hell never seen Marvin lift a single weight. 

Marvin can’t even lean over a table like a normal person, for God’s sake. Instead of pressing flat, open palms to the surface, he inevitably balls his hands into recalcitrant fists, puts his weight on his knuckles like he’s expecting a fight. 

It’s what caught Whizzer’s eye the first time he saw him, hunched over a drink in the far corner of a bar. 

It’s a quiet place, tucked away and frequented mainly by men taking their first tentative steps off the straight and narrow, lost souls driven so mad by years of fear and self-denial that the only place they can find any relief is in the gloom of this second rate gay bar. 

The guy in the corner is clearly one of those men, though he is less obviously anxious than others Whizzer’s encountered. He’s seen them glancing nervously over their shoulders, constantly checking to make sure that they haven’t been followed, that their wives, parents, children aren’t hovering behind them, about to pass judgement like ghosts in a Dickens novel. 

This man could almost pass for casual, if not for the tight set of his shoulders and the firm line of his mouth. If not for the hand resting on his left knee, which is curled into a fist. A wedding band glints softly in the dim light. 

Whizzer considers. 

His clothes are hideous, but he supposes he’s handsome, in a rumpled kind of way, and the watch on his wrist looks shiny and expensive. But what really piques his interest is the unmistakable look of a man who is spoiling for a fight, a coiled spring, ready to fly apart at the slightest provocation. 

Provocative could be Whizzer Brown’s middle name. 

So he goes over. He smiles and flirts and spreads his legs wide as he sits on the barstool. The man beside him is hesitant at first but is easily flattered into buying Whizzer a drink. His eyes are hungry, lingering on Whizzer’s hair, his chest, his thighs. So when he stands up and beckons, the man follows him without hesitation. They always do. 

He lets this man in the tragic green jacket slip into the cramped bathroom stall ahead of him, and once the door is shut, Whizzer shoves him up against the back wall, just to see what he’ll do. 

The man grunts in surprise, his eyes widening for a second as he processes what just happened. Then he frowns, and Whizzer can smell his temper simmering under his skin like metal in the hot sun. 

When Whizzer grins, bright and taunting, it sparks and catches, and to his delight he finds himself pulled forward into a bruising kiss, all sharp teeth and demanding tongue and a hand fisted in his hair, tugging until he gasps. He likes this, would happily wrestle this man to the ground for the satisfaction of seeing him pinned to the floor, frustrated and embarrassed and horny as fuck – but there’s no room in the bathroom stall. All too soon the man gets impatient and it’s Whizzer who gets pushed to his knees. 

Whizzer goes willingly, of course. He knows his role in this little scene, knows it well and performs it even better. This man puts on a good show, lasts longer than the last married man he sucked off in this bathroom stall. But Whizzer is a seasoned veteran, and before long, the man’s thrusts become sloppier, more desperate, his hand tightening at the back of Whizzer’s head. 

He looks up at his latest conquest, wanting to see his handiwork, and to his faint surprise, finds that the man is looking back at him. 

Men like this one usually shut their eyes at the end, desperately trying to hide from the fact that they’re on the verge of coming undone in another man’s mouth. But this one is watching him, his cheeks flushed, biting his lower lip hard to keep from making too much noise. He has pretty eyes. Blue. 

Whizzer winks at him and he jolts, toppling over the edge with a moan he can’t quite stifle. Satisfied, Whizzer pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while the man tucks himself back into his pants, moving slowly, as if dazed. 

This is normally the part where the married men slip away without a word, no thank you or goodbye, no thought of putting their hands on Whizzer’s chest or down his pants. The last one hadn’t even waited long enough for him to get back to his feet before darting out the door. So he’s a little taken aback when he straightens up to find the guy still standing there, watching him. 

Those eyes may be pretty but they’re also sharp, assessing. Covetous. The blowjob didn’t do anything to dissipate the tension in this man; if anything it’s worse than it was before. It crackles in the air around him like a thunderstorm. Whizzer’s skin prickles, and he feels his own dick start to harden in his pants. 

“Will you be here next Friday?” 

Whizzer’s eyebrows shoot up. 

He knows he’s good at this, but jeez. This guy looks like he forces his wife to make his dentist appointments for him, but here he is booking in his next queer, adulterous rendezvous like it’s a haircut. He’s even got the nerve to look impatient when Whizzer doesn’t immediately answer, as if he should have expected this and got his calendar ready. 

Whizzer’s never been a man to back down from a challenge. 

He snorts disdainfully, “Why, baby? You want to see me again?” 

A muscle jumps in the man’s jaw, the impatient frown darkens and the semi Whizzer’s sporting becomes a full-on erection. 

“Yes, obviously.” 

_Obviously?_

This guy is too much. 

“It depends,” Whizzer says, opening the stall door and sauntering out, letting the guy stare at his ass before deliberately looking up to catch him at it in the dirty mirror. To his credit, he meets his gaze evenly, apparently unashamed. 

“On what?” 

“What’s your name?” 

The man hesitates, his cheeks suddenly flushing, and Whizzer feels a rush of satisfaction to have thrown him off balance a second time. He must sense Whizzer’s triumph, because when he finally answers, he sounds resentful and sulky. 

“Marvin.” 

It’s a ridiculous name, a cartoon character’s name. Who looks at a baby and thinks, ‘ _You know what would suit this innocent child perfectly?_ Marvin.’ 

“Well, Marvin,” Whizzer drawls, heading for the door, “I might be here. I guess you’ll just have to turn up and see.” 

He doesn’t show up to the bar next Friday night - or the one after that, or the one after that. Whizzer doesn’t make promises. 

He does get a thrill though, that first Friday, falling into bed with another handsome stranger and imagining the tight anger in Marvin’s face as he waits and waits at that crummy little bar, the frustration and disappointment when he’s forced to accept that Whizzer isn’t going to appear. 

When he finally does go back, he scans the bar as he enters, not looking for anyone in particular. That Marvin guy was intriguing, sure, but he knows trouble when he sees it. That’s why he stayed away the extra week – surely he’ll have given up on him by now. 

Yes – the corner where Marvin was sat last time is empty, and if Whizzer feels a twinge in his stomach as he makes his way to the bar, well, it’s probably relief. Eyes follow him as he goes and he preens just a little, knowing that to these lonely men he’s like a breath of fresh air, a glimpse of blue sky, an unexpected reprieve from a lifetime prison sentence. 

He orders a drink from the bartender, a lesbian he knows vaguely through some acquaintance or other. She’s friendly enough, and when she hands him his glass she leans forward over the bar to tell him something in her sweet, low voice, “Hey, just so you know, the guy who just walked in has been here the last two Fridays asking about you. Or I think it was you, anyway, he didn’t know your name.” 

A tingle runs down his spine but he doesn’t look round, just sips his drink casually. “Curly hair, appalling fashion sense, grumpy looking?” 

“That’s the one,” she says, amused, “you know how to pick ’em, Whiz.” 

He flashes her a grin and she tuts, heading off to serve someone else. 

A stool scrapes next to him. He turns his head slowly, languidly, like he has all the time in the world. 

Pretty blue eyes look back at him, icy and hot and wanting. 

“Oh hey, Marv,” he says, smiling sweetly, “I hear you’ve been asking about me.” 

He doesn’t know whether it’s the comment itself or the nickname – perhaps it’s what his wife or his mother or his straight buddies at work call him – but Marvin’s face immediately goes red. He sits there like a statue and Whizzer can see him struggling to keep himself in control, wrestling down his pride and desire and embarrassment so he can actually form a sentence. It’s pathetic, but also strangely endearing. 

“I wanted to find out who you were,” he says, his attempt at nonchalance very much belied by the way his eyes drop to Whizzer’s mouth, before darting away again just as quickly, “you never told me your name.” 

Whizzer sips at his drink, amused, “And did you? Find out my name?” 

“No.” 

Marvin looks at him expectantly, but Whizzer deliberately ignores the obvious hint. Instead, he reaches out to finger the collar of Marvin’s drab polyester shirt and smirks when he immediately stiffens, startled by the touch. “Jeez, Marv, you could have dressed up a little more if you wanted to impress me.” 

Marvin’s hand closes suddenly over Whizzer’s wrist, holding him in place, and his tone is pointed, lecturing, “Well, perhaps I would have made more of an effort if I thought you’d actually be here.” 

Whizzer shrugs, unrepentant, looking down at Marvin’s hand where it encircles his wrist. He supposes he could pull free if he wanted, but…he doesn’t particularly. Marvin’s grip is warm and just firm enough to make heat flare low in Whizzer’s stomach. If he were to pull Whizzer away to the bathroom right this moment, he wouldn’t mind at all. 

But he doesn’t. And if Marvin is going to be difficult, Whizzer doesn’t see why he should make things easy for him. 

He leans closer to Marvin, close enough to see the faint stubble on his chin, close enough to kiss him if he wanted to. He smells good. He might have awful taste in clothes, but at least he – or more likely his wife – can pick a decent cologne. Marvin’s eyes widen a little, his breath picking up, but he holds his ground, refusing to pull away. 

In spite of himself, Whizzer likes that. 

He drops his gaze to Marvin’s hand and grins wolfishly, “No wedding ring tonight?” 

Marvin drops his hand at once, unease flickering across his face. 

“Did you tell her you were working late?” He asks, as if he’s actually interested in whatever lies Marvin tells his wife – he’s not. He’s just pushing buttons like a child with a new toy, searching for the one that will set Marvin into motion. 

Marvin straightens at once, disgruntled, squaring his shoulders like a soldier on parade. Whizzer nearly laughs at him, but the muscles in Marvin’s arms look tantalisingly firm beneath that godawful checked shirt, and he does want to get laid tonight after all. 

“No,” Marvin says, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now, something that makes Whizzer’s pants feel suddenly tight. He wants to tug at the crotch of his trousers, to give himself some space, but forces his hands to stay still. No weakness, not here. Once they go somewhere, to Whizzer’s apartment or a motel or something, then he’ll fall apart for Marvin – or at the very least pretend to. 

“I told her I was going for after work drinks.” He looks at Whizzer and his gaze drifts downwards, tracing a hot path over his throat to the open collar of his shirt. The air between them roils. “I just didn’t say with whom.” 

_‘With whom’? Ugh._

Whizzer can’t believe he’s actually going to let this guy fuck him. 

“You’d better buy a drink then,” he says, leaning lazily on the bar, though he’s never felt more alert in his life, “and while you’re at it, you can buy me one too.” 

They do end up having sex that night, up against the wall of Whizzer’s apartment. It’s rough, messy, unsympathetic. Marvin’s hands prove to be as hungry as his eyes and he doesn’t hesitate to seize what he wants. 

Whizzer can taste the acrid tang of jealousy and possessiveness in Marvin’s mouth, but he isn’t too perturbed. He’s slept with plenty of men who thought that if they only grabbed him tight enough they could keep him in place – and he’s always managed to slip away. 

Why should this one be any different? 

***

Two and a bit, nearly three years later, and Whizzer is dying. Who could have seen that one coming? He certainly didn’t.

Marvin is softer now, most of his hard edges long since worn down by grief and love. When Whizzer coughs until it aches and he’s gripped with the terrible fear that this might be it, that death is finally here, Marvin’s hands are there, gently rubbing his back, trying in vain to soothe the pain away. 

He doesn’t raise his voice anymore or try to pick fights – Whizzer doesn’t either. They talk instead, their foreheads pressed close together as they lie in the cramped hospital bed. Sometimes they laugh so hard the bed shakes and sometimes Marvin cries, though he tries not to show it, and as Whizzer holds him, he can’t quite believe this is the same man who once broke his heart. 

He’s still a stubborn, pigheaded, pain in the ass though. 

Whizzer’s told him repeatedly to go home, pointing out that soon people won’t be able to tell which one of them is dying if Marvin doesn’t start taking care of himself again – but Marvin just shrugs it off. 

”I want to take care of _you_ , Whiz. I’m not going anywhere.” 

It takes too much energy to argue, even in fun, so eventually Whizzer lets it be. In all honesty, he’s sort of relieved. It’s too simple to say that he doesn’t want to be alone – he wants to be with Marvin, for as much time as they have left. 

“Remember the night we met?” 

Whizzer looks down at Marvin. He’s nestled against his chest, his blue eyes as cloudy and remote as a winter sky. 

He’s been extremely maudlin today, more so than usual, and Whizzer doesn’t know what to do. How do you tell someone everything will be alright when it patently, categorically won’t? Sometimes he worries that the next time he opens his mouth, he might just start screaming – with fear, with how unfair it is, with the same bewildered anger he has carried with him since his parents kicked him out at sixteen. 

“Whiz?” 

Whizzer swallows down the lump in his throat, barely wincing at the pain. It’s always with him now. He’s used to it. 

“Of course. You were wearing that corduroy jacket I hated so much. It gives me nightmares to this day.” 

Marvin chuckles softly. “I don’t think I ever told you this, but when you walked over to me, I remember thinking that you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.” 

The admission sits between them for a moment, unbearably fragile, soft as a sigh. 

“Thank you.” Whizzer hesitates, wondering if he should say what he wants to. 

_Fuck it._

If you can’t tell the truth when you’re dying, when can you? He can trust Marvin, this Marvin, not to blow up in his face or go into a sulk. 

“I thought you looked like a man who wanted to fight.” 

Marvin nods slowly, “Yeah, I guess I was. I was…stupid.” He looks up at Whizzer, and though his eyes are dry, there’s a faint tremble in his jaw that tells Whizzer how hard he’s working to keep them that way, “I’m sorry, Whiz, so sorry for how I was back then.” 

It’s true what they say, about death bringing a kind of clarity. The closer he gets to the end of his life, the easier it seems to understand other people and why they do what they do. Marvin isn’t apologising because he wants to be forgiven – they wouldn’t be sharing this bed right now if Whizzer hadn’t chosen to forgive him, if Marvin hadn’t already earned it. He just needs Whizzer to understand how much he regrets hurting him. 

Closing his eyes, he wraps his arm a little tighter around his lover’s waist, presses a kiss to his forehead, “I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry too.”

Marvin lets out a long, shuddering breath, his body relaxing against Whizzer’s in a way that feels as intimate as a declaration of love. 

They lie in silence for a while, until Whizzer notices the ticking of the clock on the wall and he has to talk just to drown it out, so he can pretend that his life isn’t slipping away second by second. 

“Hey, Marv, just so you know... As far as first impressions go…” Marvin looks up at him, quizzical, and Whizzer gives him his best smirk, “I also thought you looked like someone I wanted to fuck.” 

Marvin grins at once, bright and flashing and happy, and Whizzer can lose himself in that smile, can forget his aching limbs and shaking hands and the terror underneath it all. 

“Gee, thanks, Whizzer. You always know just what to say.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Bizarrely, this was inspired by the fact that I replayed Bioshock Infinite the other day and it reminded me how much I like wallowing in dysfunctional relationships and bittersweet endings. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
